Remembering
by Allie Salvatore
Summary: "He remembers that feeling inside his heart: a slow, burning pain; just small, but constant, more annoying than hurtful." Sebastian angst. Implied character death, small mention to Seblaine. TRIGGER WARNING FOR SELF HARM AND SUICIDE.


**Trigger Warning: **Self-harm (cutting), suicide, implied character death.

**Disclaimer: **Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy, Fox, whoever else. Lyrics from "Something More" by Secondhand Serenade.

**A/N: **I'm not really sure why I wrote it. But it worked as a therapy for me. I'm sorry for that, I too love Sebastian.

* * *

_The words you said to me,  
they couldn't set me free  
_

_oo_

He'd heard of people who got so sad they started feeling numb. He didn't think it fit him. He wasn't sad before that. In fact, he wasn't sure he had felt anything his whole life!

He didn't even care about the numbness, though. Living a life like his was way better when feeling nothing. This way he it didn't hurt when the other kids called him names and told him he should die.

He remembers flinching anyway when the words hit him like gunshots.

_oo_

He'd heard of people who got so numb they started to hurt themselves just so they could feel again. He thought those people were stupid, weak, that they were lazy to find a solution to their futile problems and so they cut. Maybe they also wanted to draw attention to themselves, to make people notice them by making them feel sorry.

He remembers seeing the bandages on the wrists of that pretty brunet girl in his History class; the popular, gorgeous, skinny head cheerleader who had the perfect life. He thought she had no reason to hurt herself. But he saw the pain in her eyes, even though she had the most charming smile on her lips and realized he knew nothing about her.

_oo_

He'd heard of people who hadn't thought of hurting themselves until they suddenly did it and thought that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't that stupid after all.

_He_ never really intended to hurt himself, though. It all happened in a blur: his vision was clouded with tears and his heart beat quickly with an intense explosive pain that made him blind and deaf and numb as he dragged the first razor he could find across the skin of his arm, carving long furious lines.

He remembers the fear he felt as he threw the razor across the bedroom as if it burnt him, tears streaming down his face, blood dripping from the deep cuts on his arm.

He also remembers finally understanding how brave you have to be to do this to yourself.

_oo_

He'd heard of people who had gotten addicted to cutting. They had to cut everyday in order to make themselves feel better, like some kind of drug, and couldn't stop.

He cut almost everyday now, but he wasn't addicted to it. He could be happy without cutting and even could get through a week without having to scratch his arm to make the itching stop. He didn't need cutting. He could stop if he wanted to.

He remembers pretending to himself he wasn't lying.

_oo_

He'd heard of people who had depression. They were always feeling sad and worthless and useless as if life wasn't worth living. They felt like they would never be enough to live up to everyone else's standards.

He wasn't quite sure if he was in this category. He wasn't feeling sad or worthless or useless. He felt numb most of the time and, when he could finally feel something, he also felt angry.

He remembers searching the web for online tests to see if he had depression, though, just in case.

_oo_

He'd heard of people who hurt themselves but didn't have depression. He thought that maybe that was him. He hurt himself as a release to everyday's stress, not as an escape from all the pain.

He remembers that feeling inside his heart: a slow, burning pain; just small, but constant, more annoying than hurtful.

_oo_

He'd heard of people who had thoughts of killing themselves. He, personally, had never thought of doing such thing. He was very content with just pressing a blade to his arm until the skin finally gave up and blood started falling. He wasn't scared of cutting too deep; he was in control of what he was doing.

He wasn't going to stop, that he figured out soon enough. He didn't really care. He liked to tell himself he had everything under perfect control, that it was just a few shallow cuts, that he wouldn't kill himself like the pretty brunet girl in his History class; the popular, beautiful, skinny head cheerleader with the abusive parents. She hadn't been in control, though. Not like he was.

He remembers ending up at the hospital with one wrist slashed open, eyes drifting shut, not wanting to live anymore.

_oo_

He remembers everything after that too. The worried look in his mother's eyes, the way she lifted a hand to touch his hair softly, caressing his forehead with shaky fingertips. He remembers the way she whispered "I love you" and "I'm sorry" over a thousand times and he just stared back at her, blankly.

He remembers how her fingers trailed the scars on his arm, avoiding his wrists while they talked. She couldn't bring her voice to be louder than a whisper and he did the same, murmuring all that had been going on. He talked and cried and, for the first time, she actually listened to what he had to say.

He remembers promising her he wouldn't do that again. That he would go to therapy and try to be helped and _get better_. That he whenever he felt like cutting again he would draw a line on his arm with the red marker she gave him and then talk to someone, anyone. He remembers promising her that he would keep that calendar: a golden star for each day without cutting.

He remembers how things got easier from there. How she promised him he would be sent to a private schools with a zero-tolerance no-bullying policy. He remembers the determined look on her face when she swore he would be safe there.

He remembers his transfer to Dalton and how alien that place felt. Everybody looked so nice and so cool and so _rich._ He remembers the friends he made there, Nick, Trent, Thad. They were the best friends he could have ever had. He remembers telling them everything and being hugged and talked through it more times than he had ever imagined.

He remembers meeting Blaine. The fascinated look in the boy's eyes, even though he assured Sebastian that _he was already taken, thank you very much. _He remembers meeting Kurt, Blaine's boyfriend, as well and liking him almost instantly (not that he would ever let Kurt know it). He remembers throwing that slushie with rock salt, and he stills swears it wasn't his intention to hurt Blaine (or Kurt, his original target).

He remembers calling Blaine earlier this week. He remembers the pain inside his chest, the numbness taking over his body. He remembers his hands grabbing a razor and pressing it deep in the thin skin of his arm.

He remembers Blaine's tears and the way the boy had to shake his shoulders to keep him from fighting back when he tried to take the razor away. He remembers how the tiny thud of the blade hitting the wall across the room sounded like an explosion.

He remembers telling Blaine he wanted to die, that he couldn't take it anymore. He remembers the boy whispering sweet nothings to his ear; he remembers his lips ghosting over his neck and shoulders and Blaine saying he was sorry.

He also remembers promising Blaine he wouldn't do it. That he wouldn't try kill himself, not now, not ever.

Yes, he remembers all that.

Then why is he lying on a pool of his own blood, both wrists slit open, too late to be saved?


End file.
